Storia di Anthony
by Dr Fuzz
Summary: What had happened before Racetrack became a Newsie was closed. He thought he had escaped from it. But he knew, he had always known, that he couldn't run forever. And that one haunting figure that had so easily returned, wouldn't let him.
1. back again

A/N: PLEASE READ FIRST  
  
Don't take any of this offensively, I'm Italian myself, but these names are necessary for story purposes.  
  
This was around the time when Italians and Irish really didn't get along (because of jobs ect.).  
  
Now, again, if you are Italian or Irish, please, this was not meant as in insult to your nationality. It's just some guy picking on Race.  
  
Grease Ball/Bag- Greeks/Italians/Hispanics- Possibly because of the grease they sometimes put in their hair or because of the types of food they make. Also: Greaser Ginney/Guinea- Pronounced "gi-nee." Came from "Guinea Negro" and originally referred to any Black or any person of mixed ancestry. This dates back to the 1740's. By the 1890s it was being applied to Italians--almost certainly because they tend to have darker skin than Anglo-Saxons/Germans. By 1911 the term began being applied to Hispanics, although the reference to Italians is the most common.  
  
hope that clears things up! Thanks, Kaydi, for the information! Enjoy! Disclaimer: If you think I own them, you're stupid.   
  
Racetrack felt someone shaking him roughly, but he didn't wake.  
  
"Race." A far off voice called.  
  
"No! No! Arresto! Non prego! Arrestilo! Per favore!"  
  
"Race!"  
  
"Arrestilo! lascilo solo! ARRESTO!"  
  
"RACETRACK!" Jack's voice woke him with a start. Racetrack's eyes flew open and he sat up as fast as possible. Unfortunately, he collided with a metal bar from the bunk above him, so he swore and laid back down clutching his head and his eyes shut again in pain.  
  
"Race you's were screamin in Italian." Jack told him while Race muttered curses under his breath, not knowing or caring that every boy in the lodging house was staring at him.  
  
"Yeah." He answered quietly turning over, his back to the older boy. "Bad dream. Go to bed." He said bluntly.  
  
The other boys grumbled and shut their lights off, settling back into their beds. But Jack remained seated by Race.  
  
"Race?"  
  
Race grumbled an audible "yes?"  
  
"You's ok?"  
  
"I'se fine." He answered in a hard tone.  
  
Jack pat the younger boys back, and climbed back into his own bed, shutting off the last light, and leaving it defiantly dark. Race lay awake.  
  
His eyes remained wide open, as if he was afraid that if he closed them again that scaring image might return. It had been so real that he could almost feel the punches and backhanded slaps. And the belts. Those were the worst.  
  
After about half an hour, Race got out of bed throwing on a hat and a pair of pants with suspenders silently. He walked into the washroom, careful not to wake the other boys, and leaned over the sink. He splashed water on his face that was now holding a look of great depression and sadness. His breath was ragged and quick. He gripped the sides of the sink and leaned over, letting his weight rest on it. Then Jack entered. Could he ever keep to himself?  
  
"Race what is goin on?"  
  
Racetrack felt his throat tighten and feared that if he spoke he'd choke and break down.  
  
"Racetrack are you's ok?" Jack put his hand on Race's shoulder. At this, Race quickly spun around making him let go, his face red and screwed up in anger that now welled up inside of him.  
  
Jack put his hands up and confusion struck his face.  
  
"Ya know what? Maybe I'm not. That doesn't mean you's should be interferin!" Race shouted, waking the other boys again and hearing the load grumbles from the other room. "Just because you's didn't know me until I'se was thirteen doesn't mean I'se didn't have a life before that! It doesn't mean I'se didn't go through things before that. I'se went through a lot! I was-" His voice cracked and he stopped short, looking away from Jack, still looking angry as ever.  
  
He looked into the bunk room at an open window. He stormed out of the washroom, past the grumbling boys, and out the window. There he sat on the fire escape.  
  
Jack stood there, still in the washroom, utterly confused. He hadn't heard Race yell like that since Jack went scab, back in the strike. Race had never talked about his past at all. And Jack had never seen him so angry either. Race was usually a very easy going guy. There was something wrong, and it had to be awfully bad for Race to get so angry.  
  
Race sat on the cold fire escape, his legs dangling over the edge and his hands gripping the bar in front of him. He was shaking with anger. His past was back to haunt him, he yelled at his best friend, he was alone, and to top it all off he was cold. He and Jack had always been really close. Jack was like his big brother. How could he have yelled at him like that? Race pulled his loose sleeve up to his shoulder and traced the deep, long scar that ran from his mid-upper arm to his wrist. What had happened before he became a Newsie was closed. He thought he had escaped from it. But he knew, he had always known, that he couldn't run forever. And that one haunting figure that had so easily returned, wouldn't let him.  
  
**************************************************************************** *******************  
  
EARLIER THAT DAY  
  
**************************************************************************** *******************  
  
"Extra! Extra!" Racetrack yelled waving his last paper in the air. "Factory fire! Thousands presumed dead!!"  
  
It wasn't really a lie. Thousands were presumed dead. They just happened to be large pieces of machinery, that were presumed dead.  
  
"Heya Anthony." A chilling voice behind him said. Race stopped dead. No one even knew his real name around here.  
  
He turned around slowly and pained look flashed across his face seeing the man that stood before him.  
  
"What?" The man taunted. "Doncht'a 'memeba me?" Racetrack sighed and looked down.  
  
"I couldn't faget." He answered in a slow monotone.  
  
"So", the man growled while grabbing Race's shirt collar. "You'se thought you'se could escape, huh? Is that it?"  
  
Race didn't answer.  
  
"Didja hear me kid!?" The man spat getting directly in his face. "Huh?! Didja hear me?" he smirked. "Greasa?"  
  
He was testing Race's growing temper.  
  
"Yeah, I heard you'se."  
  
"Gimmie your money."  
  
"No." Race answered plainly. God, he had gotten bold over the years.  
  
"Gimmie your money!!" The man spat. He got right in Race's face and glared.  
  
Racetrack glared back.  
  
The man took a hard swing at Race's cheek. Race's past suddenly caught up with him and he quickly handed the man all his money. Not taking his eyes off the now bruised and scared boy, the man pocketed the money and ripped up Race's last paper. Then he left calling "Seeya Ginney!" over his shoulder.  
  
**************************************************************************** ********************  
  
How could he have caught up with me again? Race thought. Now he was caught in his past. Yelling at his friends, fearing anyone who looked like they'd touch him. Racetrack sighed. He curled up against a wall, and fell asleep in the bitter cold fall night air. He awoke to Kloppman telling the boys to wake up. He heard him inside ask where he was. Jack answered quietly that he was fire escape and that he'd wake him up. Jack peered outside the open window and said, "Heya Race, gotta go sell. Lets go."  
  
Racetrack stood up stretching. "Yeah, ok Cowboy. Sorry about last night." He added quietly. Last night never happened, don't dwell on it. He told himself.  
  
"Eh, everyone gets kinda irritable sometimes." Jack answered with a smile.  
  
Race smiled back.  
  
At least things were normal again with his friends.  
  
For now at least.  
  
Everything seemed to lighten up. Most had just presumed Race had a bad day, which is partially true. Race got his papers, his usual 50, which he again cheated off of Weasel, and made his way out, yelling headlines the whole time. He was selling well, and got rid of more then half of his papers by noon, and even managed to get an extra dime from a lady. He felt lucky today.  
  
Ok, so his luck changed.  
  
The same man from yesterday stalked over to him and grabbed his collar, lifting him so his toes barley touched the ground.  
  
"I knows you makes more money den dose scrapings you'se gave me yesterday. Hand it all over, Ginney."  
  
"I-" Race managed though being slightly choked "I'se tellin you da druth. I'se got nothin more den dat a day."  
  
The man tightned his grip.  
  
" 'onest, Liam, I swear it!"  
  
The words having no affect on this man apparently named Liam, he dragged Race over to a dark alley and dropped him in it. Well, he more of threw Race at the back wall, and him being the Italian bean pole he was, banged into the wood fence that cut the alley off.  
  
To bad it's not brick. Race told himself. At least then I'd be knocked out.  
  
"So you do memb'a me, huh, kid?" He asked. "Not like a Greasa like you should be allowed to speak my name."  
  
Though Race's temper was about to burst, he kept quiet knowing what was best for him. He knew Liam, and unless you wanted to be beat up, you didn't talk back to him.  
  
"You'se ran away dree years ago and you betta not dink you could get away with dat. Cause you can't! Nobody runs away from me." Race sat there helplessly not knowing what to do. Even if he could get away now, it would only be worse for him later.  
  
Liam smirked. "Now you'se gonna get what you had coming all along."  
  
Suddenly, Liam lunged at him, punching, kicking. It was pretty much a free for all and Racetrack couldn't say he didn't see it coming. Then Liam stood up, once Race had curled into a ball on the ground, in a decent amount of pain.  
  
"Seeya Ginney. You tell anyone and your dead. I aint kiddin." he said before giving him one last light kick and waking off.  
  
Though against what his wounds told him, Race got up after a while and tried to hobble back to the lodging house. It had gotten dark and cold, but he really didn't care at this point. So he slowly made his way back.  
  
When he finally did arrive at his destination, he stopped at the front door.  
  
What was he supposed to tell Jack and everyone else? He was sure he must have looked awful and the bruises wouldn't easily go unnoticed. He lost a bet? Even Race wasn't that stupid. He thought for a second. He looked in the window. There were all the boys, or most of them, sitting in the lobby of the lodging house, talking and laughing.  
  
He'd just have to run in and upstairs as fast as he could, though his body didn't feel capable of running up two flights of stairs. He took a deep breath, turned the door handle, and pushed the door open. From there he ran as fast as he could up the stairs and into the bunkroom, slamming the door behind him. He wasn't sure who, if anyone noticed him, but he hoped no one did. he walked over to his bunk and picked up a cigar. Lighting it, he walked into the washroom to see just how much damage Liam had actually caused. He paused to look in the mirror only to see himself with a large bruise that was on one side of his face taking up most of his cheek. He also had cut his bottom lip and scraped his upper forehead, right at the hairline. There was no way this was getting by Jack no matter how hard he tried. He must've had more scrapes and bruises on his arms and legs, but at the moment, he didn't really care. He walked out of the washroom and onto the roof.   
  
Race sat up there, thinking and smoking for a while. He'd lost track of time, but it had been an hour, and everyone downstairs had wondered were he was. None other then Jack, the last person Race wanted to find him, walked onto the roof behind him. It's not that Race didn't like Jack. He did, they were best friends. But he didn't want to tell him what had happened, and he knew Jack would want an explanation. Jack looked at Racetrack sitting there, smoking, unaware that everyone downstairs was searching for him. "Heyya Race, everybody is looking for ya."  
  
Race looked over his shoulder at Jack, letting him see the side of his head that wasn't bruised, and raised his eyebrows. "Really?" It sounded more like a statement then a question. He turned away from Jack again, so he had a lovely view of the back of his head.  
  
"Yeah, we didn't see you come in."  
  
Race failed to say that that's what was intended, so he just stayed quiet instead.  
  
Jack walked up to him and sat down, unfortunately on his bruised side. Race stared forward, ready to ignore the remarks that would erupt. Race could almost hear Jacks expression quickly change from normal to confused and concerned.   
  
"What happened ta you'se?"  
  
Race still stared ahead, like he was actually looking at something. He shrugged. Ow. Note to self: No shrugging.  
  
"Got soaked." Racetrack mentally kicked himself. Duh, I got soaked. Stupid, stupid.  
  
"By who?" Jack asked.  
  
Race turned his head to him like he just noticed he was there, giving him a full view of his bruised and cut face. "Don't know. I couldn't tell."  
  
Jack nodded and stood up, pulling Race up with him.  
  
"Let's get inside before somebody dinks you'se died."  
  
Race laughed at that.   
  
He pretty much ignored anyone who asked about his face and just went straight to bed. For the first time in a while, he had a good, long, and un-disturbed sleep.   
  
Kloppman woke him up the next morning yelling at everyone "Get up! Get up! It's a nice day! Gotta sell! come on boys!"  
  
He rolled out of bed and dressed. He walked straight over to Jack.  
  
"Hey, uh, Cowboy, could I, uh, sell with you'se today?"  
  
"Eh, surah, why not?" he gave Race a smile and walked into the washroom. Race was grateful.   
  
He really was just afraid to be alone.  
  
Race and Jack called out the headlines and sold almost all their papes. They had gone to both Jack's and Race's selling spots. They laughed at the lies they told and had a great time together.  
  
Both Jack and Race were reminded of their close friendship.  
  
"Yeah, and then you'se told that guy that you saw him in the paper and he actually bought it!" Jack said in between laughs to an already in hysterics Racetrack.  
  
"Yeah!! Ha ha ha-" Race stopped short leaving only Jack laughing. Jack didn't seem to notice as Race watched a tall man walk over to them in horror.  
  
"Ha ha ha..eh, Race?"  
  
He didn't answer.  
  
Jack followed Race's gaze to Liam, now closer and still walking. " 'ey, who's that?"  
  
Liam came face to face with Racetrack. He held out his hand. "Money." Liam said simply. Race reached into his pocket but Jack stopped him. "Whoa, Race, what are you doin?"  
  
"He's givin me my money. Now scram."  
  
"Oh. Well, excuse me. Your money? Did you sell his papes?"  
  
Racetrack spoke quietly from behind Jack. "Jack, it's ok, he can have it."  
  
"Race dat's your money."  
  
Race shut up and looked to the ground.  
  
"Gimmie the money, Anthony." Liam spoke again. Racetrack closed his eyes at the name.  
  
"Anthony?" Jack asked. "Never mind. Listen, my friend here can keep his money, tanks."  
  
Liam shoved Jack aside and looked right at Race. "What is dis, Anthony? Some kinda body guard?"  
  
Race gathered up all his nerve, which really wasn't much considering Race's experiences with this guy. Jack glanced at Race who looked clearly terrified, but ready to speak.  
  
"Anthony's dead."  
  
Liam laughed.  
  
"Not yet, kid. Maybe soon, but not yet."  
  
" 'e is. 'e's dead and you killed him just like you killed me ma." His voice shook slightly towards the end and with that, red with fury, Liam punched Race in the stomach and then the ribs, causing his already bad wounds to hurt worse. Jack shoved Liam and tackled him. Race doubled over and his eyes shut tightly in pain. Jack toppled Liam and punched his jaw. Liam backed off, blood trailing from his nose. "You'll pay for this Ginney."  
  
Jack looked furious.  
  
"Never EVER call him that again!! AND DON'T YOU EVER TOUCH HIM AGAIN EITHER!" Jack yelled so Liam could hear him as he walked away. Racetrack had never seen him so mad. Jack turned to see Race, hunched over and clutching his stomach. It was then that Jack realized how small Racetrack was compared to himself and Liam, even for a sixteen year-old boy.  
  
Jack quickly went over to Race and held him up. He rolled his shirt up and saw huge bruises all over his ribs.  
  
"Jesus Race.is dat whose been soakin ya?"  
  
"Dey hurt.." Race managed, ignoring the question.  
  
"Ok, ok.shh..come'on buddy." Jack led him back to the lodging house.   
  
Once Race was inside and Kloppman had determined that he had broken a couple of ribs, he bandaged him up immediately.  
  
Jack cautiously approached him. "I thought ya said you'se didn't know who was soakin ya?"  
  
"I lied." Racetrack said plainly.  
  
He was glad Jack didn't ask why, because he wasn't about to explain that Liam wanted to kill him.  
  
Jack hesitated at the next question, unsure if he should ask.  
  
"Soo...you knew him before you'se was a Newsie?"  
  
Race was silent.  
  
It was an un-spoken rule that peoples lives before becoming a Newsie we're buried, burned, whatever. The point was, no one wanted to talk about it, and no one did. Therefore, Race wasn't about to just freely talk to Jack about Liam.   
  
"Race, this guy seems kinda dangerous, I think you'se should tell me."  
  
Race looked right at him with an expression that frankly wore "No."  
  
Jack sighed and walked out the front door of the lodging house, only after telling him to stay there.  
  
Race sat in a chair in the lobby of the lodging house, frankly, bored. Half an hour had passed since Jack left, probably to see Sarah, and Jack had told him not to leave. Well Jack knew Race hardly listened anyway. He looked out the window behind him and saw that the sun had just started to set. Maybe he could just slip out to Medda's. No one would really notice..and what's the worst that could happen? 


	2. the whole story

Race quietly slipped out the door and down the street. His ribs hurt slightly, but the pain wasn't as before, so he continued towards Medda's. He stopped and looked into the open gates of Central Park. it had gotten dark now, and no one would be in there. He walked in. He had often come to the huge park at night to think, and, usually, no one noticed. He had memorized every spot, every hiding place, and every climbable tree there was. He sat down at the foot of a large tree he had visited so many times before and just thought. He recalled when Liam first came into his life, even though he was only seven. He was a friend of Race's father, who had met his mother a couple of times. Things went well until Race was about ten. Racetrack's father got in a fight with his mother and left them. He could still remember right before his father left. He placed a gold pocket watch in Race's hand and spoke to him in slow, clear Italian. He told him to stay who he was, and to remember him.  
  
He remembered how his father would only speak to him in Italian most of the time. He wanted him to remember his pride and who he was inside, despite what had happened in his life. Race still lived by that.  
  
Then his mother began dating Liam. They married a year later and got along fine but Race never really liked him. Nobody could ever be like that loving caring father that Race once knew, and he knew that. He couldn't except Liam, whether he wanted to or not. And he didn't want to.  
  
Race never found out what happened to his father.  
  
Liam had left to study at a rich university for a year. Though his mother grew lonely, he really wished Liam would never come back. Liam did return. But not as the fun, easy-going Liam Race's mother loved and cherished. He simply stormed into the house one day, startling the eleven year old boy and his mother. His mother went happily to greet him, but he simply told her,  
  
"We aren't married any longer, no matter what the law says."  
  
His mother stared at him. She asked him to explain so many times but all he would say to her was, "I figured out my mistake and I betrayed my own nationality."  
  
It took him a while but Race had eventually figured that out. Liam was Irish. Race and his mother where Italian. Liam had went to an all Irish school. He had no idea, but maybe he was told of the constant spats between the Irish and Italian. Maybe Liam had come to believe them himself. He had certainly changed and seemed to believe more and more in discrimination over the years. He started beating Race's mother. Race had tried to stop him so many times, but only gotten beaten himself. Race still had the scar from when Liam took out a pocketknife and cut Race's mid- forearm to his wrist. It glowed white against his bronzed skin and Race couldn't look at it without remembering. Then there was that one night, nothing particular about it, until Liam came home.   
  
Race leaned back on the tree behind him and closed his eyes. He hated thinking about this.  
  
Liam swaggered in and he didn't look the slightest bit happy. He walked up to Race's confused mother. Race didn't like this at all. He stood next to his mother, as if he, a skinny eleven year old could protect her against this huge man. Liam grabbed her wrist, startling her, making her gasp. He threw her across the room and she landed hard on the kitchen floor. "Liam?" she asked in a scared tone.  
  
Race ran and sat next to her holding her hand.  
  
"Get out, Anthony." Liam growled in a surprising low voice.  
  
Race didn't move an inch.  
  
"Get out!"  
  
Race remembered standing at that point.  
  
"No!" his high voice yelled.  
  
There was a dead silence.  
  
"I won't let you hurt her anymore!!"  
  
Liam gave the small boy a hard backhanded slap and punch sending him to the floor. Then he kicked him. Race looked at his mother who looked scared and helpless, tears in her eyes. She motioned for him to leave, and he did, but he sat right outside the open door ready to barge in anytime.   
  
He remembered it being dangerously quiet from what he could hear for seconds that seemed like hours.   
  
Then, suddenly he heard his mother's voice, but not a tone he heard her use to often. It was terrified. Not pleading, not scared. Truly and utterly horrified. Race swallowed hard and turned to look in the doorway, just in time to see Liam shoot a gun off, and kill his mother.  
  
Liam turned to see the small, white faced, horrified eleven year old boy. He walked up to him wordlessly and picked the skinny boy up from the floor. He seemed sluggish, like what he saw was just sinking in. Liam pushed him backwards, letting in stumble and made him kneel over, taking his shirt off. Liam took out a leather belt and pounded the small boys bare back with it. Race would never forget. Present day, Race found himself shaking. He couldn't tell if it was the anger or the cold, but Race wouldn't admit that anything could effect him so much, so he told himself it was just the cold.  
  
He still had the scars, all of them. The ones on his back, arms, legs, stomach, everywhere. He kept them mostly well hidden, so he thought, but actually everyone knew he had them. They just kept their mouths shut. Lives before Newsies, for almost all the boys, where simple memories that wouldn't be shared. Ever, if possible. Race had learned to leave them behind. So why was he being effected so greatly? Why was he sitting alone, in Central Park, on a cold night, recalling the night his mother died in front of him?  
  
A voice snapped him out of his thoughts.  
  
Jack.  
  
"Race, you in 'ere?"  
  
He ignored him.  
  
"Race?"  
  
"Yeah, I'se in 'ere." He said finally.  
  
He saw Jack wander from the shadows and look at him. "What are you doin' 'ere?"  
  
"Thinkin'."  
  
"'bout what?"  
  
There was a deafening silence.  
  
"About dat guy?" Jack asked. He sat next to him now.  
  
Race looked away from him, rather annoyed that best friends could read minds.  
  
"Yeah." He said quietly, hoping he was to quiet to understand.  
  
"Do ya eva plan on tellin me about him?"  
  
Race turned and looked at him. "Yeah, I guess."  
  
He paused wondering where to start.  
  
"He was a friend of my fathas and then my fatha left so Liam, dat guy, married me mom."  
  
"If he's your fatha, how come 'e's afta you'se?"  
  
Race opened his mouth to tell him that Liam was a great Italian hater but stopped. Liam was Irish and Jack was Irish. How was he supposed to tell Jack this?  
  
"'e's Irish."  
  
"So?" Jack asked.  
  
Race looked at him. He was honestly quite stupid sometimes. Great, but stupid.  
  
"So, afta they got married, Liam ran off with his Irish friends and suddenly he came back, a year lata, and hated Italians, which is what I am."  
  
"So den what?" Jack asked impatiently.  
  
"So 'e started beatin me mom", Race didn't want to see the look on Jack's face, so he turned away. "And me."  
  
The silence continued.  
  
"'e beat you'se?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
...more silence...  
  
"Is dat what your scars are from?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"So what are we gonna do about it?"  
  
Race stared at him in disbelief.   
  
"Jack, what can we do about it?"  
  
"What does 'e want you for?"  
  
Race thought for a moment.  
  
"He just wants all my money everyday, and then he'll probably just beat me more or somtin."  
  
Jack was shocked.  
  
"Beat you? Again? 'E can't do dat!!"  
  
"Jack, I was da only one who saw him murder me mudda, do ya really dink e's gonna let me get away?"  
  
"You saw him do dat?"  
  
Race told him the whole story, even if he did find it hard. Though he knew his own past was pretty hard, Jack had never suspected Race, the happy go lucky wisecracker always saying silent or loud sarcastic remarks, was a victim of these beatings since he was ten.  
  
"We's gotta keep that guy away from you's."  
  
"It'll only make it woise." Race answered bluntly.  
  
Jack patted Race's shoulder and stood up. "Come on Race."  
  
And with that, the two friends left together, closer then when they had entered. 


End file.
